


Talent

by luvsanime02



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Superheroes/Superpowers, Humor, Language, Multi, Shameless Smut, WinterWidowHawk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/pseuds/luvsanime02
Summary: Clint, Natasha, and Bucky all get involved in a bar fight, and surprisingly enough manage to not end up being arrested. They then celebrate back at Clint and Natasha’s place.





	Talent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> Written for ClaraxBarton for her birthday!

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own Marvel comics or characters, and am making no money off of this fic.

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**Talent** by luvsanime02

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Clint would like the record to show that he did not come to this bar to start a fight tonight. (He’d also like to apologize if there actually is anything or anyone in charge of keeping a record of his life, because yeah, no one deserves to have to try and organize that dumpster fire.)

Also, in fairness, Clint didn’t start the fight. Okay, he threw the first punch. So, yeah, he could see how, from an outside perspective, it looks like Clint was the one who began everything. That it’s his fault.

But an outsider didn’t see Mr. Broody-pants get shoved roughly, and then, when he _hissed_ in pain and took off his jacket to check his arm - a wicked-looking prosthetic that Clint’s pretty sure has to be cutting-edge technology and expensive as shit - the guy who ran into him had sneered and asked Mr. Broody-pants if he thought that having a metal arm made up for being half a person now.

Clint set down his beer on the bar and casually walked over, and then just as casually punched that ableist piece of shit in the jaw.

So, yeah, he can see how someone might get the wrong idea and blame Clint for having started everything, because that guy fell back into some other guys, and then those guys pushed back, and then Mr. Broody-pants picked up a chair (with the metal arm, a part of Clint noticed with petty glee) and threw it at the group, knocking over three of them, and, well, the whole place devolved into a good, old-fashioned brawl in the blink of an eye.

“This is all your fault,” Natasha mutters in his ear twenty minutes later, when the cops show up and start pulling people apart forcibly. Clint gives her a betrayed look. Like she wasn’t right behind his shoulder when Clint punched that first guy. The son of a bitch got off easy when Clint clocked him one. Natasha’s expression had said that she wanted to break his spine using nothing but her heels, and she’d be capable of it, too.

Also, not that Clint was keeping score or anything, but he’s actually pretty sure that Natasha punched more guys than he did tonight. Not as many as Mr. Broody-pants, though, who’s currently standing on Natasha’s other side and watching the cops warily, like he wants to run but knows that’s the last thing that he should do right now. Once that guy decides that you’re worth punching, or throwing a chair at, he really goes all-out, apparently. Got to admire that about a guy.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Clint fires back, deftly reaching up and removing his hearing aids. Natasha mutters something uncomplimentary under her breath, but Clint turns his head just far enough away so that he can’t read her lips.

At least, he does until he sees Mr. Broody-pants start in place out of the corner of his eye, and then turn to Natasha and say something back. Then Clint’s too curious to pretend to ignore them, and watches those full lips carefully as they speak in what Clint realizes after a few confused moments is _Russian,_ not English.

Natasha speaks it fluently. Clint pretends that he only knows enough to order a drink and swear creatively in a bad accent, because Natasha always gives him the most hilarious long-suffering look when he does that. She’s well aware that he’s actually fluent, too.

Apparently, Mr. Broody-pants is also fluent, and he and Natasha quickly strike up a loud conversation, sharp hand gestures and exasperated looks included, that Clint stops paying attention to again after a few seconds as he carefully watches the rest of the room instead. The two of them eventually gain the attention of the cops, but the rapidfire Russian completely bewilders and overwhelms the officers, and after only a few moments of trying to follow along, one of them just shakes his head and gestures for them to leave. It doesn’t hurt that the cops also take one look at Mr. Broody-pant’s artificial arm and adopt looks of concern and pity, as annoying as that attitude is.

Clint follows along beside them, and when the cops try to speak with him, he adopts an unfocused look and signs something at them. It’s always a gamble, because some cops do know ASL nowadays, but luckily, both of them only stare at Clint in growing despair. Natasha grabs Clint’s arm and says something else loudly in Russian that Clint only catches the end of when she turns to him, and he has to tamp down on an inappropriate urge to laugh when he realizes that she’s reciting a goulash recipe she’s fond of making sometimes.

Mr. Broody-pants, who looks blank-faced in the exact way that says he’s also struggling not to laugh, shakes his head and glares menacingly at the officers, which he does very well, and Clint helpfully signs some more questions, asking if anyone else wants to get some pizza. The three of them are allowed to walk away after another minute, and the best part is the look of disbelief and outrage on the face of the asshole who Clint hit first tonight. The guy’s jaw is already swelling up nicely, and he probably can’t open his jaw or speak very well right now, or he’d be complaining loudly at the unfairness, surely.

The three of them walk away together, not speaking for half a block.

“So,” Mr. Broody-pants asks into the sudden silence, also using hand signs to communicate, “about that pizza. Have anywhere in mind?”

Well, that answers Clint’s question about whether or not Mr. Broody-pants can speak ASL, and also reminds Clint to put his hearing aids back in. Mr. Broody-pants was nice enough to turn his hands towards Clint when he spoke so that Clint could read the question, but still, Natasha’s giving Clint a look that says she wants him to engage with the world again. Bummer.

“Sure,” Clint says easily. “There’s a really good place not far from here.” Not far means about fifteen more minutes of walking, but neither Natasha or Mr. Broody-pants objects. Neither of them _speaks_ during this time, either, and Clint’s skin is crawling by the time they get to the little restaurant. Natasha’s ignoring him on purpose, clearly still annoyed by the fight they just escaped from, but Mr. Broody-pants seems right at home in the silence, too.

“Aren’t dates supposed to have more conversation than this?” Clint finally asks.

Natasha’s expression turns highly amused, and Mr. Broody-pants raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Thought we just did the date,” he points out. “Now we’re grabbing something to eat before the sex.”

Despite starting it, Clint snickers in surprise. Natasha rolls her eyes, but nods in agreement. “In that case,” she says, “we should get the pizza to go.”

Which goes against everything Clint believes in. Pizza is meant to be eaten at the restaurant, hot just from the oven, but he’s willing to compromise if he’s getting sex with two people out of the deal. He’s half-expecting Mr. Broody-pants to back out and explain that he was just joking any second now, but instead he seems remarkably at ease with them, even picking out toppings.

Maybe he gets off on the adrenaline rush too, just like Clint and Natasha. Either way, he walks contentedly at Natasha’s side the whole way back to Clint and Natasha’s apartment. They’ve only just moved in about a month ago, so stuff is still scattered everywhere because neither of them can be bothered with mundane details like unpacking - although for two very separate reasons - but Clint and Natasha have been rooming together ever since college, and are very used to being in each other’s personal space by now.

Mr. Broody-pants looks around like he wants to organize everything and clean their entire apartment from top to bottom, but he doesn’t say anything out loud. He does accept the beer that Clint tosses him, not even pausing before twisting the cap off with his flesh and blood hand, so Clint figures he’s alright.

And very attractive. Clint’s been trying not to obviously stare, but the guy’s gorgeous, actually. Apparently, Natasha agrees, because she barely waits until they’ve all eaten a slice of pizza before she’s crawling into Mr. Broody-pants’ lap and kissing him.

Which is great to watch. Hot as hell. Especially when Natasha tugs on his hair, and Mr. Broody-pants moans in response, letting Natasha control the kiss. Clint clears his throat. “Did you want me to leave, or…”

He has no idea what exactly’s going on here. He and Natasha aren’t exclusive, and Clint doesn’t know if the two of them want to be alone, or if he’s being invited to participate as well. Clint really hopes it’s the second option.

Natasha breaks off the kiss and turns to give Clint a fond, exasperated look that’s quite familiar to him by now. “You weren’t paying attention to our conversation when the police showed up, were you.”

It’s not a question, and if Clint’s the only one confused here, then yeah, he’s definitely missed something very interesting. He raises an eyebrow. “I saw you reciting a recipe, but that didn’t exactly seem like riveting information.”

Mr. Broody-pants smirks, and Natasha rolls her eyes. “I invited James here tonight, with the both of us, while you weren’t paying attention,” she says, and oh, that explains the past half-hour, then. Clint can’t believe that he missed the proposition.

“In that case,” he says, waving a hand and gesturing at them both, “please continue.” James. Mr. Broody-pants’ name is James. Clint’s not sure that he looks like a James, and resolves to still silently refer to him as Mr. Broody-pants for now.

Instead of following his order, not that Clint expected her to, Natasha stands back up and pulls Mr. Broody-pants along with her, and then the two of them walk around the coffee table (they walk in step with each other, like they’ve known each other for years, not hours, and when they break apart so that Natasha can walk on the left side of the table and Mr. Broody-pants the right, they don’t pause, don’t even look at each other, both of their gazes completely zeroed in on Clint sitting on the couch, and he’s getting excited just watching the two of them converge on him like they’re preparing to eat him alive) and stop just in front of him.

Clint doesn’t know who to touch first, but the choice is quickly taken out of his hands. Not that he’s complaining when Mr. Broody-pants crawls into Clint’s lap and kisses him. Okay, then. Clint’s fully on board with this guy sprawling in his lap and pressing those full lips to his own. They taste great, with just a hint of Natasha’s lip gloss, and Clint chases the peach flavor with his tongue, licking his way inside the guy’s mouth.

Mr. Broody-pants seems perfectly fine with Clint controlling this kiss too, which is awesome. He reaches up a hand to grab the guy’s hair, only to feel Natasha’s hand already there, so he tangles their fingers together and they both pull Mr. Broody-pants’ head to the side sharply.

Their only response is a loud moan, and Mr. Broody-pants rubbing his hips in a tight circle against Clint’s, and yeah, he’s definitely interested now. Not that he wasn’t before, really, but now every part of him is aware and invested.

Natasha presses up against Clint, and he realizes abruptly that she’s wearing much less clothing than she was before. He breaks away from the kiss finally, and turns his head to see her sitting there dressed in nothing but some red lace panties, her legs crossed casually and her breasts pressed against Clint’s arm.

Just as Clint’s thinking of making some remark about her being eager, Natasha leans forward and kisses him softly, before biting his lower lip as she pulls away. Okay, she wants to be a little rough tonight. Clint’s perfectly okay with this. Looks like Mr. Broody-pants is too, if the way that he licks his lips quickly and how wide his pupils are dilated are anything to go by.

“You two are perfect,” Mr. Broody-pants mutters, and oh, his voice is just a little lower now, with just a hint of a growl, and suddenly Clint’s way overdressed. Natasha has the right idea, after all. Not that she doesn’t always, anyway.

Clint would object to that statement, actually, because he’s far from perfect, even if Natasha definitely is, but Natasha only kisses Mr. Broody-pants’ stubbled jaw, sucking a mark onto the skin there and licking the spot afterwards. “We are,” she says simply. “Now, help me remove Clint’s clothes, James.”

Something about the order causes a shudder to run through Mr. Broody-pants. Clint leans back and lets them have at it, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his legs out onto the coffee table. “I’m all yours,” he says, struggling to keep his tone casual and his breathing steady. Clint thinks that he manages it pretty well.

“Yes, you are,” Mr. Broody-pants agrees, with that growl in his voice again, and his fingers quickly unbuckle Clint’s pants with no problem, even the ones on his left hand. Nice. That arm must be some serious piece of hardware. Of course, Clint’s soon distracted when, instead of grabbing his dick and stroking it nicely, Mr. Broody-pants chooses to ignore the tent in Clint’s briefs and tap a finger against his hip instead. “Up,” he commands.

Looks like Mr. Broody-pants is able to dish out orders, as well as take them. Clint likes that kind of flexibility in a guy. Natasha’s silently watching, and after Clint’s jeans are pulled down his legs, she leans forward and runs her fingers over the newly-bared skin just above Clint’s groin and below his shirt.

Clint groans. “Don’t tease me, Nat,” he says, not really objecting but figuring that he should be. How can he seriously object to two gorgeous people running their hands all over him? Mr. Broody-pants is even kind enough to untie Clint’s shoes before taking them off, and Clint can’t decide if that’s hilarious or just sweet.

“Have you still not figured out that teasing you is the objective?” Natasha asks him, arching an eyebrow. Mr. Broody-pants smirks at that, and damn, that expression should not be so hot on him. Natasha runs her fingers casually up under Clint’s shirt, until she can pinch one of his nipples, and Clint hisses lightly. Larger hands, one warm and living, and one harder and slightly cooler, are caressing their way up Clint’s calves and to his thighs, and Clint spreads his legs wider obligingly, letting all that muscle push its way between his legs. As far as Clint is concerned, Mr. Broody-pants can stay there between Clint’s thighs for the rest of forever, especially with that challenging look on his face.

Clint’s nipple is abused again, and his hips twitch up. His dick is fully erect inside of his underwear now, and Clint wiggles his hips a little, watching Mr. Broody-pants as his eyes follow the movement. Natasha leans over and kisses Mr. Broody-pants again, makes Clint watch them kissing right over his groin, and he smacks his head against the back of the couch with a groan.

“Not very patient, is he?” Mr. Broody-pants says to Natasha when their lips break apart once again, obviously amused.

She smirks at him. Why does Clint find it so hot when people smirk? He clearly has a type. “Not when it comes to sex, no,” she says agreeably, and Clint wants to object to that, he really does, but Natasha chooses that exact time to lean down more and suck on the head of Clint’s dick through his briefs.

“Fuck,” he moans, closing his eyes for a second before forcing them open again. Clint really doesn’t want to miss any of this.

Natasha lets go of his dick. “See what I mean?” she says to Mr. Broody-pants, and he chuckles in reply. Assholes, the both of them. Clint can’t remember ever being more turned on in his life.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let them both have all the fun. Clint leans up just enough to pull off his shirt roughly. “Seems like I’m not the one overdressed now,” he says pointedly.

Mr. Broody-pants smiles, and he has _dimple_ _s_ , and Clint thinks that he’s dying just a little bit. Oh my fucking god, he’s _beautifu_ _l_.

“We have to go to that bar again,” Clint whispers to Natasha, not that Mr. Broody-pants can’t hear him perfectly well, what with their heads leaning so closely together.

She nods. “We probably won’t be allowed back in the door, though,” she admits. “Besides, I think we got the best pick of the lot right here.”

She has a good point. Mr. Broody-pants stands up, and Clint mourns the coolness between his legs now as he and Natasha both sit up properly again to watch, Natasha rubbing a hand over Clint’s chest idly. Clint thinks for a second that she’s just going to let Mr. Broody-pants do his own thing, but then she pierces him with a commanding look.

“Take off your shirt, James,” she instructs. Another shudder runs through Mr. Broody-pants’ frame, and he swallows visibly. He grabs his shirt and slowly, watching them both watch him, inches it higher and higher, and damn, what a body is revealed.

Clint’s in shape. Clint’s in damn fine shape, thanks for asking. So is Mr. Broody-pants, and it shows in the perfectly-sculpted muscles of his abs, in the slim trimness of his waist and the wide shoulders, and yes, very nice. Clint leans back again, content to enjoy the show. He tries to sneak a hand down and start jerking himself off too, but of course Natasha catches his fingers before they reach his groin, and she gives him a stern look. Clint sighs, resigning himself to being patient for now.

His attention, if it wasn’t already on Mr. Broody-pants, definitely would have been once his whole torso is revealed, including the arm. Clint thinks it’s as beautiful as the rest of him. Clearly a work of art. The prosthetic goes all the way up, even reconstructing his shoulder, and it moves just as well as his flesh and blood one.

“That’s StarkTech,” Natasha says, and it’s not a question. Clint agrees. The level of technology is pretty distinctive. “Dr. Barnes?” she asks next.

At first, Clint assumes that she’s talking about whoever designed the prosthetic, and he’s mildly surprised that the arm’s not a Tony Stark original, but then Mr. Broody-pants startles and looks surprised. “Uh, yes,” he says, shifting in place. Clearly, whatever response he was expecting after revealing the arm, it wasn’t Natasha’s sudden question. “James Barnes,” he says, and oh, Dr. Barnes is Mr. Broody-pants. “People usually call me Bucky, though,” he adds.

Bucky. Clint’s not sure if that’s any better than Mr. Broody-pants, but he kind of likes it. “Well, Bucky,” he says, “you gonna finish what you started?” He gestures at Bucky’s pants, just in case his meaning somehow isn’t clear.

Bucky rolls his eyes, and then looks to _Natasha_ for her opinion, which is fair. Natasha’s definitely in charge right now, and Clint can appreciate Bucky realizing this as clearly as Clint does. Natasha nods, because she loves him, really. That, and she’s definitely as interested in seeing all of Bucky as Clint is.

Bucky unbuckles his pants, but then he pauses. He grins again, and it’s just as charming as before. Those dimples are too much. “I’m not actually wearing any underwear,” Bucky says casually, and then before Clint can fully process this, he’s unzipping his pants and yanking them down.

Yep, Bucky is definitely, absolutely not wearing any underwear, and Clint is one hundred percent okay with this. His dick is fully erect, and so pretty that Clint feels his mouth water, while Natasha uncrosses her legs and leans forward, shamelessly wanting a closer view.

“I think we should move to the bedroom now,” she announces, and Clint’s standing up almost before she’s done speaking. Bucky finishes removing his pants and shoes, also untying his laces first, and then he walks over to the couch and offers Natasha a hand up, even though she clearly doesn’t need it.

She accepts the hand anyway, and wow, she must really like Bucky already. Natasha doesn’t just accept those sort of gestures from anyone. She’s the one who leads them down the hallway and to the bedroom, though, and Clint walks through the door to see that Natasha is sitting in Bucky’s lap again, her fingers tugging his hair as she kisses her way down his neck.

Part of Clint wants to just watch again, but the rest of him wants to _touc_ _h_ , finally. He can’t really bring himself to wait any longer, and so he kneels beside them on the bed and runs one hand down Natasha’s back, his nails scratching her skin the way that he knows she likes, and as she arches into his touch, Bucky leans down and starts kissing her breasts, taking one nipple in his mouth and sucking on it gently.

“Harder,” Clint advises, and Bucky obeys, and Natasha moans in response. Clint moves his other hand to Bucky’s lap and finally grasps his dick, stroking his hand up the length just to feel its weight, and then Clint starts jerking him off lightly. He doesn’t want to actually get Bucky off like this, but Clint can’t seem to keep his hand off of Bucky’s dick once he’s touched it.

Natasha’s got one hand cupping the back of Bucky’s head now, keeping him in place against her chest, and she turns a piercing look on Clint. “Get the lube, Clint,” she says, and Clint scrambles to comply, reaching over and rifling through the nightstand drawer until he finds the lube and some condoms, and then he straightens back up again. While Natasha’s preoccupied, Clint quickly rips off his underwear, not willing to keep them on for another moment.

Natasha notices, but she approves, grabbing a condom from his fingers and pulling Bucky’s head back until his neck is arched beautifully. “Take off my underwear, James,” she tells him.

Bucky reaches out eagerly, and he runs his fingers up Natasha’s thighs and then to her hips, where he carefully slips two fingers under each side of her panties and pulls them down. Natasha lifts herself up just far enough to get the fabric off, and then she’s settling back down in Bucky’s lap again.

She runs her hands over Bucky’s chest and up to his shoulders, and then she gets a wicked gleam in her eyes and Clint knows what she’s going to do a second before she does, in just enough time for Clint to dodge flailing limbs as Natasha suddenly tightens her legs around Bucky and flips them both over.

Bucky lets out a grunt as he suddenly finds himself leaning over Natasha instead, but he smiles easily, clearly willing to roll with it. Clint takes advantage of the opening to press himself against Bucky’s back, and Natasha wraps her legs around them both as far as she can.

“James, are you okay with fucking me while Clint fucks you?” Natasha asks softly and seriously, looking Bucky in the eyes, and Clint settles against Bucky’s back to wait for his decision. This is important, because as much as Clint and Natasha are flexible when it comes to positions and who is penetrating which person, they’re aware that not everyone feels the same, and consent is very important to the both of them.

Bucky nods eagerly, though, and his hips move up and down between them in a quick jerk, like he’s not sure which he wants more. “Please,” he says, and well, since he’s asking so nicely.

Natasha smiles and kisses Bucky, and then she hands him the condom that she took from Clint earlier. Bucky rips it open in impressive time, and then Natasha takes it back and smoothes the condom over Bucky’s dick herself. She keeps a hold of his length while Bucky enters her, arching up into the feeling with a moan that Bucky echoes.

“You feel so warm,” Bucky says, thrusting into Natasha shallowly at first, and then deeper.

“I bet you feel even hotter,” Clint whispers into his ear, watching the two of them move against and with each other, and wanting to be a part of that, too. So, Clint finds the lube and slicks up his fingers, and brings two of them to Bucky’s opening. Clint runs his fingers along Bucky’s perineum just to watch his ass lean up into the touch, and then Clint pushes one finger slowly inside of him.

Bucky is tight and hot, just like Clint knew he would be, and damn, but Clint wants to take his time fingering Bucky open, until he’s sobbing underneath him. Bucky thrusts sharply inside of Natasha, and both of them cry out at the sensation, and Clint promises himself that he’ll tease Bucky more later. For now, he works on stretching Bucky open efficiently, twisting his fingers inside of Bucky’s hole and watching him clench in response.

“Tease,” Bucky moans, as Clint slowly removes his fingers and wipes them off on the sheet. He finally reaches down and touches his own dick again, hissing at how sensitive he already is. Clint tears open another condom with his teeth and hurries to put it on and lube up before he presses slowly inside of Bucky’s body, gritting his teeth against the urge to come right then. Natasha would never let Clint live that down, and he’s pretty damn sure that Bucky wouldn’t either.

“Who’s the tease?” Clint asks, thinking about Bucky’s little striptease earlier.

“You’re the one who just took five minutes to stretch me open before sticking your dick in me,” Bucky retorts, and then he pushes back onto Clint’s dick, clearly ready for him to move. Well, Clint agrees with that. He grabs Bucky’s hips, and then uses his hold to keep him steady while Clint pulls back and then thrusts inside him deeply.

Bucky groans, and Natasha thrusts up when Clint thrusts down again, and then the two of them are moving together, Clint fucking into Bucky while Natasha fucks herself on Bucky’s dick, and he’s trapped, helpless, between the two of them.

It’s perfect and too much, and can’t last long, but Clint will be damned if he’s going to be the one to break their rhythm first. Bucky reaches his left hand back and grips Clint’s hip tightly, and then _pulls_ him down faster, and Clint lets out a shout of pleasure. He thrusts down harder into Bucky, and Natasha moans, and then all three of them are fucking each other as fast as they can. Bucky lifts up one of Natasha’s legs and rests it on his shoulder, and Clint grasps her calf and holds her leg up, holds her open for Bucky to fuck her. Natasha’s hands reach around Bucky’s sides, and her nails dig into his shoulder blades, encouraging Bucky to move even harder.

Clint snaps his hips down, deeper inside of Bucky’s heat, and puts his back into his thrusts so that all three of them move across the bed a couple of inches. He pries one of Natasha’s hands from Bucky’s back so that he can tangle their fingers together and balance against each other’s weight, fucking Bucky and fucking themselves and each other until Bucky’s stiffening and his hips are twitching between them. His ass clenches around Clint’s dick again, and then he can’t stop the explosion from happening behind his eyes anymore.

He might black out for a few seconds. It certainly feels like Clint just floats away for a while. When he comes back down to reality, Clint is slumped mostly on top of Bucky still, and he forces himself up with a tired groan. Clint kisses the nail tracks in Bucky’s back from where Natasha’s fingers marked him, and then he pulls carefully out of Bucky, taking off the condom and tossing it over to the trash can across the room. He hears it thunk into the can, of course. Clint never misses.

He then collapses onto his side and stretches out. His back twinges, but this was so worth it. Bucky leans up once Clint is no longer crushing him, pulling out of Natasha, and then he dips his head down and starts licking her out while she runs her fingers through his hair restlessly. Natasha comes not more than a minute later.

“That’s one talented tongue,” Clint remarks, his voice a little hoarse. He must have been shouting earlier.

“It is,” Natasha agrees, a little breathless. “Thank you, James,” she adds.

Bucky presses a kiss against her stomach, and then falls onto the bed between them with a soft grunt. “Anytime, ma’am,” he assures her. “Just let me get some feeling back in my legs first.”

Clint snorts a laugh, not that he’s one to talk. He’s feeling too blissed out right now for another round just yet, but give him a few minutes and he’ll definitely be good to go. “You’ve still got your dick wrapped,” he mentions off-hand, and Bucky jerks upright with an adorable look of disgust on his face before he peels off the condom and ties it. He too throws it at the trash can, and doesn’t even bother to watch as it hits the target. Nice.

Natasha looks pleased with herself, which she very much should be. This is the best outcome of a bar fight that Clint’s ever been in, that’s for sure. Clearly, he needs to pick a fight with jerks more often. Good thing that Clint has something of a talent for that.


End file.
